Stay With Me
by TheBlindReader
Summary: A continuation of the modern-day Assassins' last scene in Syndicate. Lots of angst. Oneshot.


_**WARNING: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SYNDICATE AHEAD.**_

 _Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any of its characters. If I did, the modern day Assassins would fight with REAL WEAPONS such as firearms and explosive grenades, and would wear bulletproof vests so crappy fanfics like this one would never need to be written._

 _A/N: I've been working on this stinking story for almost three months. Three long, unproductive months, during which I was often tempted to smash my laptop over my head and call it quits. Finally, after re-writing it 5 or 6 times, re-researching it 20 or 30 times, and re-reading it 5000 or 6000 times, I present it to you. Yes, I know the quality of writing is not high enough to explain the amount of time I spent on it. Yes, I know the ending is choppy and abrupt and inconclusive. Yes, I know it's sappier than an entire maple orchard. But I am convinced this the best I can do without resorting to plagiarism._

* * *

It happens so quickly.

His fingers are mere inches from the box containing the Shroud, but then Rebecca shouts his name and before he can even look up, she's crashing into him just as a gunshot echoes throughout the chamber. He catches her as they hit the ground, lessening the impact, but something's wrong. He can tell from her face, can see from the red seeping through her shirt. She's badly hurt.

And just like that, the mission is forgotten. Assassins, Templars, the Shroud, Galina battling Otso Berg feet from him... Every bit of it dissolves from his mind, and all he can think about is this thick, daft, completely _mental_ woman who's just taken a bullet for him. He cradles her against him, clamping his hand over her side to staunch the bleeding as more bullets whiz past them.

He tries to talk to her, to keep her awake, but she's losing consciousness, whether from shock or pain, he's doesn't know. Without warning she goes limp, unresponsive to his pleas for her to _stay with him_.

Calling her name, he presses two fingers into her neck, because he can't tell if she's breathing, can't even tell if he is. But it's no use, he's already asking the universe why this is happening, what he'll do without her, how this could ever be better than getting shot himself.

It takes a shout from Galina to jerk him back to the reality that Rebecca is _alive_ , but she won't be for much longer if they don't _get her help_. Something clicks off in his brain then, and he goes numb to all emotion, like he isn't really present, just observing these events from a far-off time or place. Like he's in the Animus, watching someone else's nightmare play out.

Operating on auto-pilot, his only thoughts are of actions. Stand. Pick up Rebecca. Carry her over the bodies of Sigma team. Exit the vault. Keep moving. Keep moving. _Keep moving_.

By the time he reaches the van, the muscles in his legs are trembling so violently from exertion he can hardly stand. Galina hurries to open the rear doors, hopping inside to help hoist Rebecca in, meanwhile telling him things he doesn't hear, because he's just then realized how bloody he is. His sleeves are soaked. His hands are sticky. His shirt is stained. All with his best friend's blood. His own pounds in his ears as the gravity of their situation comes rushing back to him like a freight train.

But Galina is there, leaning over him again, shaking his shoulder to break him out of his trance. He stares blankly, trying and failing to take in what she's saying.

She holds a phone close to his face, and it takes every ounce of his concentration to read the text. An address. He swallows hard and nods. Yes, he knows the place. She hands him the keys, and he rushes around to the driver's seat, cursing his fingers for shaking as he fumbles with the ignition.

With each passing second, Rebecca comes closer to death. He knows this. That's why he has to be the one to drive. London is _his_ city, after all. Not so long ago, these damp streets were his home.

He tries to think about _that_ , and not the sound of Galina administering first-aid behind him. He can hear her muttering in Russian, can hear paper ripping open and bandages being torn.

He wants desperately to look over his shoulder, but is certain if he does, he won't be able to tear his gaze away from Rebecca. So he drives, his mouth dry and his grip on the wheel almost painful.

-o0o-

He parks and kills the engine, and before he can stand, two men are already inside the van, lifting Rebecca onto a stretcher. He wants to help, but they don't so much as glance his way as they haul her out and into the alley beside their destination, an abandoned storage facility.

He follows them inside anyway, unsure why. He can't watch them operate. He knows he's utterly useless at this point, that all he can do now is wait and see if the last person he truly cares about in this bloody Brotherhood is going to die and leave him with all these ' _thank you_ 's and ' _I'm sorry_ 's still caught in his throat.

Galina takes him by the arm and brings him to a halt. Placing a hand on his cheek, she tells him everything will be alright, because Bishop trusts these men. Then she gently pulls the keys he's been clutching from his fingers, and he realizes she has to hide the van. Funny, that's usually his job. But he's not leaving this building while Rebecca's still inside it, and somehow, Galina understands this without being told.

With a grave nod, she hurries off, and he stands staring down at the grey concrete. He wants to move, to sit, to scream, to vomit. He feels too cold and too warm all at once, a strange combination that for whatever reason causes paralysis.

He takes a deep, haggard breath and reaches up to remove his glasses, to rub his tired eyes, to run his hands over his face. But that familiar, iron-like scent of blood fills his nostrils, and he remembers he needs very badly to wash his hands. But he has no idea where the running water is, and anyone who could assist him is busy doing much more important things, like saving Rebecca's life.

Forcing his feet from the spot they seem rooted, he slumps against a steel support beam and bows his head. And for the first time in seventeen years, he prays.

-o0o-

He sits beside Rebecca while she sleeps. He needs to do the same, but he wants to be here when she comes to. After all, _someone_ has to lecture her on the utter idiocy of purposely jumping into the path of a bullet.

His eyes drift over her pale face. She doesn't look right, resting without headphones covering her ears. Part of him wants to amend that, put something on for her to listen to, because he knows she has trouble sleeping without her music. But that's just absurd. He feels like a fool for even considering it. If Galina or the others were to hear from wherever they've got to, he'd never live it down.

He makes a mental note to ask her about it when she wakes up. _If_ she wakes up, he corrects himself. She may have survived the operation, but she's by no means recovered. The thought of watching her waste away from an infection makes him feel sick, so sick.

He pulls out his mobile, suddenly unconcerned with appearing silly, and searches for the first song that comes to mind. His fingers tap the screen hastily, clumsily, but he needs a distraction, anything to keep him from pondering what life would be like without her to muck up his database entries, to judge him every time he eats a steak, to criticize his coffee making abilities, to roll her eyes at his sarcastic comments. Anything to keep whatever's rising in his throat from escaping his lips.

Finally the awful, twangy guitar begins to play quietly from the phone's small speaker, and he forces himself to turn the volume _up_ rather than down. It's dreadful, this song, and he hates it, but Rebecca doesn't.

And besides, it stops him thinking about the future by reminding him of the past. Of driving through the States with the radio on, of Italian pubs and underground hideouts, of emails and missing MP3 players and attempts to educate her on the definition of 'good music,' of arguments and name calling and things he said that he wishes he hadn't.

Mostly, it reminds him that he has no idea how to be an Assassin without her. Because before Desmond and Lucy came into their lives all-too briefly and then left all-too suddenly, before all the death and betrayal and pain, before the fate of the world rested on their shoulders, it was him and Rebecca.

By now the song is over, has been for a bit, but the silence isn't what draws him out of his musings. He feels it before he can confirm it with his own eyes- her gaze boring into the side of his head.

Swallowing uncomfortably, he raises his head to meet her amused, inquisitive stare. He frowns, unsure how long she's been awake, or why he's finding it difficult to speak, or what he'll say to her if he does.

But after a few moments, the words do come. They're not the ones he wants, or the ones he needs, they're not even said in his usual voice, but they're all he can manage:

"Hey, Becs."

And the weak smile she gives him tells him they're enough.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading!


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